I used to write in this way where I’d wind the words together and spin them into this long yarn of depth (or what I thought was depth) and poetry. Id weave all the letters together into this string of fantasy and naïve story telling. I’d spend my night’s drawing up a way in which my life would end up exactly where I wanted it. I don’t know where that is now. I don’t know what I want to do or who I am. I’m getting increasingly ok with that. Some days I find it hard to just exist, but other days I’m ok not knowing where things are headed. Maybe that’s because I have four partners making the same journey with me.
If you could look at me the way I saw myself, I don’t know if I’d be disappointing or shockingly unique. I can see the world from all sides sometimes. I see it before it happens. I see it before it moves and even still I can’t move myself or decide my own outcome. I can stop my kids from getting hurt, I can catch them mid-fall or stop them from falling at all, I can see a bad decision coming from a mile away, and I can stop myself from making any decisions at all and just be stagnant. Rotting.
I can’t tell if I’m being pulled in all directions or if I’m just too scared to make a move. Its probably the latter. I’ve got a different excuse for every day and every night. I have a different reason for why I’m right where I am. I’m right in the place that I built for myself. I find the qualities in others aren’t the ones I want near me. I find the morals in others not as fitting as I thought they’d be and I find myself less and less tolerant and I hate that about me. I don’t accept others immorality the way I should. I have set high standards for the world and I find it very difficult for anyone to live up to that.
I find something disappointing about everyone I meet. I find a way to write them off before they hate me. I find a way to distance myself and be ok with it. I’ve ended up in a cage that I built for myself because people have left. And in an epiphany, I realize that I am alone because I choose to be alone. People are not who they appear to be, and I choose to avoid that kind of disappointment. Adults don’t want friends, they want escapism. They don’t want connection they want to hide from their lives. I don’t want that. I want a real life that I don’t have to hate. I don’t want to wait for Friday. I want every day to be new. I don’t want routine. I don’t want to know what I’m doing tomorrow. I don’t want things. I don’t want materials. I want to wake up and help someone everyday and show my kids that being happy and good is the most important things. I want to live an idealistic life away from the things I used to want and need. I’ve changed. The people I know haven’t. I changed too much. I don’t even recognize myself anymore, but I like this version of me better. This version just wants to be happy. That’s the goal isn’t it?